Sick Masochist
by HostessWithTheMostest
Summary: Every time you feel it, you become restless. You try your damnedest to resist it, to ignore it, to do anything but go to it. You know it's useless, but you can't help it. It distracts you from everything – Natasha (your blushing bride to be), your work, your friends – and twists your thoughts so that every time it comes on not even a swim in the Antarctic would help you. FrostHawk.


Fluff? In my fanfiction? Pfft, not today bub.

Just gonna… post this here and run :B

Warning: Sexual abuse, mind control remnants, etc. etc. On with the show.

* * *

Every time you feel it, you become restless. You try your damnedest to resist it, to ignore it, to do _anything _but go to it. You know it's useless, but you can't help it. It distracts you from everything – Natasha (your blushing bride to be), your work, your friends – and twists your thoughts so that every time it comes on not even a swim in the Antarctic would help you.

It's been years since the spell has been broken, but every time you find yourself in that same back alley as if you're a mindless zombie all over again. You find it ironic how it's always dead and invisible to everyone but you even in the middle of the day. Must be magic. Its 3 AM now, and you're standing there staring at the outline of the moon through the glow of the city lights. Its cold out, but you know you won't be for long. Your usual Avengers outfit suffices for now.

The feeling intensifies and you know its time. You don't even have to turn around to know that he's there. A satisfied chuckle escapes him but you continue to stare at the moon, completely relaxed. There's no use fighting it. He'll just torture you for it.

You feel hands through the back of your hair, traveling up to the top of your head where your hair is longest. He pulls it down and back, forcing you to rest your head on his shoulder. You gasp sharply from the suddenness of it. His lips are at your neck and you don't fight it. Your not even sure you could fight it at this point.

"Bastard," you choke out as he bites you. You feel him smile. Your hands curl and uncurl irritatedly as you itch for something to hold on to or push against. You need leverage. You need friction. You need _something_ already.

"Now now, _Barton_," he hisses. "Let's not get too hasty with the name calling, hm? They'll be plenty of time for that." You grit your teeth but say nothing. Be a good little puppet and the master will reward you handsomely.

You're released, spun around, and forced up against the wall. The rough stones dig into your skin and you hiss at the painful pleasure. You can't help but enjoy the roughness of it. You'll never admit it, but it's a wonderful change from the gentleness you and Natasha share. But she can never know of this, no one can. He's made it painfully clear time and time again. You have a feeling this time will be no different.

He peels off everything on your upper body, kissing gently – and occasionally licking – your jaw and neck. Once he hits your collarbone, all bets are off and he involves his teeth. As he travels down you use his shoulders as anchors as you moan and whimper. You writhe beneath his mouth and let every sound that bubbles up in your throat out. Keep too quiet and he'll turn savage.

He pays careful attention to your nipples and your knuckles go white on his shoulder armor. He notices, nipping occasionally to force a grunt out of you.

"Asshole." you say, and he moves lower. Your muscles ripple beneath his lips and tongue. You become more and more excited as he moves lower and lower. You hate it, hate _him _but you can't find it in you to push him away or to even tell him to stop. He hits the hem of your pants and you swallow, feeling a strange tingling before cool air hits your lower regions. You want to call him a cheater but the word is stuck in your throat when you feel his hand wrap around you.

"Fuck..." You drag the word out, entangling it with a moan as you tilt your head up. He smiles wickedly and nuzzles the underside of your jaw.

"I'd like to do just that."

"You would wouldn't you, you prick." you bark at him and suddenly yelp when his fingernail presses roughly into your slit. You hiss when he rubs his thumb soothingly over it afterward. The sting of it all is overwhelming and you can't help but want more. Your wish is granted when he drags his nails – abruptly sharper than before – down your back, and you shiver like the sick masochist you are.

A sudden jolt of desire overcomes you, and before you know what you're doing, you've yanked his head back by his hair and have clamped down on the space between ear and neck forcefully with your teeth. You taste blood and groan when you feel pressure and friction on your member. A trade for a trade, and you remember how much of a pain-lover he is – not unlike yourself.

After a few more bites, he shoves you back and almost throws you to the ground face first. You welcome the pain as you hear him drop his pants and feel him mount you. You feel filthy and you love it. Pain singes up your backside as he forces himself in dry. He rests himself against your back, knows you can take the added weight, and sinks his teeth into the flesh over your shoulder blade. You howl in pain, loving every minute of it as he moves roughly in you. You never understand what comes over you to make you act like this but you don't care. You go with it.

He makes you see stars and you drop to begging. Begging for more, no that spot there, _yes_. You curse at him, call him every name under the sun, and in return he throws them right back at you. At some point you have your face buried in one arm while the other hand sets to work on your release, your calloused hand rubs furiously at your erection. God, if anyone were to see you now... you don't know what you'd do.

All too soon everything is washed in white as you both hit your peaks, bodies spasm slightly afterward. He lets you recover and bask for a moment in the afterglow – his treat to you for being a good puppet. You try to deny it, being a puppet, but in the end it would be a lie. Maybe Nat's cognitive recalibration didn't work as thoroughly as previously thought. It doesn't matter now though, your time for recovery is over. He's already pulled out and is redoing his pants – or whatever the hell they call pants on Asgard.

"Until next time, Clint." he says, that Cheshire grin plastered on his face in a way that makes your skin crawl with a need to claw it off his face. He gives a slight bow as he walks back into the shadows and probably into another dimension entirely.

You want to collapse right then and there and fall into a sleep that you'll never wake from. But that would be too easy. You stand, feeling sharp stabs of pain all over your body and you know it's going to hurt for a while. The sting that reminds you to keep your mouth shut about all of this. Be a good puppet.

He'll be back, you know it. And it makes you want to puke when the agonizing realization returns; you want him to be back.

'_Always the sick masochist, eh, Clint?_'


End file.
